Mavis Gallant - The Selected Stories of Mavis Gallant

Outside she discovered a new little Bert, subdued and teary.

“He wanted his lunch first,” said Herbert. “So we changed our plan. But he ate too fast and threw up on the buffet floor. Nothing has worked as we intended, but perhaps there will be some unexpected facility on the German train.”

Little Bert held on to his sponge and hiccuped softly. His face was streaked and none too clean. He looked like a runaway child who had been found in a coalbin and who was now being taken home against his will.

The German train crossed the Rhine at a snail’s pace and then refused to move another foot. Until it moved, the toilets and washrooms would be locked. They sat for a long time, discontented but not complaining, gazing out at freight sheds, and finally were joined by a man as tall as Herbert, wearing a blond beard. He had a thick nose, eyes as blue as a doll’s, and a bald spot like a tonsure. He dropped his luggage and at once went back to the corridor, where he pulled down the top half of the window, folded his arms on it, and stared hard as if he had something to look at. But there was nothing on his side except more freight sheds and shell-pocked gray hangars. The feeling aboard this train was of glossed-over poverty. Even the plump customs man shuffling through seemed poor, though his regulation short-sleeved shirt was clean, and his cap, the green of frozen peas, rode at a proper angle. Something of a lout, he leaned out the window of their compartment and bawled in dialect to someone dressed as he was. Herbert sat up straight and squashed his cigarette. He was a pacifist and antistate, but he expected a great deal in the way of behavior from civil servants, particularly those wearing a uniform.

Little Bert had been settled in one of the corner seats; the other was reserved for someone who had not yet appeared. Christine and Herbert sat facing each other. They were both so tall that for the rest of the afternoon someone or other would be tripping over their legs and feet. At last the freight sheds began to glide past the windows.

Christine said, “I don’t feel as if I were going home.” He did not consider this anything like the start of a conversation. She said, “The heat is unbelievable. My dress is soaked through. Herbert, I believe this train has a steam engine. How can they, when we have first-class tickets?” That at least made him smile; she had been outraged by the undemocratic Paris Métro with its first- and second-class cars. Foul smoke streamed past the window at which the bearded man still stood. The prickly velvet stuff their seats were covered in scratched her legs and arms. The cloth was hideous in color, and stamped with a pointless design. The most one could say was that it would do for first class.

“All we need here are lace curtains,” Herbert remarked.

“Yes, and a fringed lampshade. My grandmother’s parlor looked like this.”

Little Bert, who seemed about to say what he thought of the furnishings, shut his mouth again; the owner of the window seat had arrived. This was an old woman carrying bags and parcels and a heavy-looking case that she lifted like a feather to the rack before Herbert could help. She examined her ticket to see if it matched the number at the window seat, sat down, pulled out the drop-leaf shelf under the sill, and placed upon it some food, a box of paper handkerchiefs, a bundle of postcards, and a bottle of eau de cologne, all drawn from a large carryall on which was printed WINES OF GERMANY. She sprinkled eau de cologne on a handkerchief and rubbed it into her face. She had sparse orange-blond hair done up in a matted beehive, a long nose, small gray eyes, and wore a printed dress and thick black shoes. As soon as she had rubbed her face thoroughly she opened a plastic bag of caramels. She did not wait to finish eating one caramel before unwrapping the next, and before long she had her mouth full.

Christine said to Herbert in French, “The German train may have unexpected facilities.” The air coming in at the window was hot and dry. The houses they passed looked deserted. “What would you call the color of these seats?” she asked him.

“We’ve said it: middle-class.”

“That’s an impression, not a color. Would you say mustard?”

“Dried orange peel.”

“Faded bloodstains.”

“Melted raspberry sherbet.”

“Persimmons? No, they’re pretty.”

“I have never eaten one,” said Herbert. He was not at all interested.

Little Bert spoke up and said, “Vomited plum tart,” quite seriously, which made the woman in the corner say “Hee hee” in a squeaky tone of voice. “Read to me,” said little Bert quickly, taking this to be universal attention.

“It isn’t a book for children,” Christine said. But then she saw that the woman in the corner was beginning to stare at them curiously, and so she pretended to read: “ ‘It was the fourteenth of July in Paris. Bruno put on his blue-and-gold uniform with the tassels and buttons shining …’ ”

“No, no,” said Herbert. “Nothing military.”

“Well, you read then.” She handed the book across. Herbert glanced at the title, then at the flyleaf to see if it was Christine’s. He pretended to read: “ ‘Bruno had a camera. He wore it on a strap around his neck. He had already dropped one in the lake so this one was not quite so expensive. He took pictures of Marianne, the housekeeper …’ ”

“ ‘Who was really a beautiful princess instead of an ugly old gossip,’ ” said Christine.

“Don’t,” said Herbert. “She loves him.” He went on: “ ‘He took pictures of a little boy his own age …’ ”

“Is Bruno a bear or a boy?” said Christine.

“A male cub, I imagine,” said Herbert.

“It’s a sponge,” said the offended child. He threw it down and went out to where the bearded man was still gazing at the dull landscape. All this was only half a gesture, for he did not know what to do next.

“That’s sulking,” said Christine. “Don’t let him, Herbert. For his own sake make him behave.” The woman in the corner looked again, trying to make sense of this odd party. Christine supposed that it was up to her to behave like a mother. Perhaps she ought to pick up the sponge, go out to little Bert, stoop down until their faces were nearly level, and say something like, “You mustn’t be touchy. I’m not used to touchy people. I don’t know how to be with them.” Or, more effectively, “Your father wants you to come back at once.” She realized how she might blackmail little Bert if ever she married Herbert, and was ashamed. It was an inherited method, straight from her late grandmother’s velvet parlor. But by now Herbert was trying to show little Bert something interesting out the window, and little Bert was crying hard. She heard the bearded man telling Herbert that he was a Norwegian, a bass baritone, and that he had been asked to teach a summer course in Germany. His teaching method was inspired by yoga. He seemed to expect something from Herbert, but Herbert merely mouthed “Ah,” and left it at that. He was trying to get little Bert to blow his nose. Then, after an exchange she was unable to hear, all three disappeared down the corridor, perhaps looking for a conductor. The toilets and washrooms were still locked.

A few minutes after this, at a place called Bietigheim, their carriage was overrun by a horde of fierce little girls who had been lined up in squads on a station platform for some time, heels together and eyes front. Now there was no holding them. “Girls, girls!” their camp monitor screamed, running alongside the train. “Move along! Move along to second class!” They took not the slightest notice; she was still calling and blowing a whistle as the train pulled away.

Christine and the old woman sat helplessly watching while their compartment was taken over by a commando, led by a bossy little blonde of about eleven. Six children pushed into the four empty seats, pulling up the armrests and making themselves at home. “These places are taken,” said Christine. The commando pretended not to hear. All six wore knee-length white lace socks and homemade cotton frocks in harsh colors. For all their city toughness, they seemed like country children. Their hair, loose and unbraided, was clasped here and there with plastic barrettes. The child sitting in Herbert’s place had large red hands and the haunted face of a widow. Another was plump and large, with clotted veins on her cheeks, as if she were already thirty-five and had been eating puddings and drinking beer since her wedding day. When she got up suddenly the others giggled; the pattern of the first-class velvet was imprinted on her fat thighs. As for the bossy one, the little gangster, showy as a poppy in red and green, she could not leave the others alone, but seem compelled to keep kicking and teasing them.